I held my breath.
Then the voice came through.
“Bay City… this is Mariner…”
The signal crackled, weaker than usual.
Callan leaned closer, adjusting the squelch knob.
“Captain, you’re breaking up. Say again.”
The reply came back strained, like a man speaking throughclenched teeth.
“Good to hear you… tonight.”
Something about his voice made my stomach drop.
Not the calm, steady tone we’d grown used to.
This sounded worn out.
Callan caught it too. His hand paused on the dial.
“Are you alright out there, Captain?”
A long pause before the man answered.
“No, not really,” the captain said, honestly.
The wind whipped hard across the rooftop, and I turned toward the radio.
“We’ve been holding offshore like we said,” the captain continued, “but we’re running into trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“Fuel.”
My hands tightened at my sides.
“And food.”
The words sat there in the static, heavy and plain.
Callan’s jaw shifted.
“How many people are with you?”
Another pause. Longer this time.
“Just the two of us.”
Callan and I looked at each other.
“Two?” Callan repeated.
“Me… and my boy.” The captain’s voice splintered on the last word. “He’s sixteen.”
Callan ran a hand through his hair and blew out a slow breath.